Dude, can I have some of them pills?

Y'know what, when it comes to that... big things in life, mainly decisions, there's always two things pretty much govern it:

a) Personal choice - that's what you want. Go for it!
b) Chances given - hey lookie, a cookie before me! Might as well take it! *munch2*


Really, that's it? Lemme add another one that I do feel had been bugging me since God knows exactly when:

c) People pulling and pushing - "no," they said, "you should do THIS!" Before one could pick themselves up, another set of hands grab hold, "no, do THIS!"


A lot of the time, you'll feel like a rag doll, dragged around, pulled here and there and when you're dropped, you'll slumped to the ground, no support, dang wondering what's next? I'm sorry but I am, as it is, exhausted trying to really figure out what I want without adding what others want out of me into the equation. One point I was told to do one thing and the next, I'm told to do another thing. What gives?! 'Looking at the circumstances?' Boy, y'ain't lookin' too far before that, I betcha'! Of course maybe it's because nobody really get it but I am a one track minded person. You put me there, I hate it, but that ain't stoppin' me from giving my best and doin' fine at things. And while we're at it, add 'Perfectionist' to the mix and gee-golly-whiz! What have ya got there! You'll be sayin' it's a blessin' well darnit, it may even be my lil' hell! Maybe a total slump on that diggady dang result should've done the trick and everybody would've left me to my devices!

WEEHOO!!!

Oh, I so need a chill pill and a time away from practically... everything here.

I guess I got too used to having pretty much my own space and time, doing whatever I want to do with restriction I totally forgotten how's it like to have one. I guess maybe that's what's up with me not feeling homesick during Matrix orientation? Surprise? Hardly. But yeah, really, how far in this freaking state right now can I really go away? Even stepping out of the house alone is a mess in need of thorough figuring out. Sheesh~! *headdesk* It's okay. I'm FINE! I'm in that state of mind where I do feel having a peen is way better than having an extra hole down there. Less chance of getting fucked up.

God, help me.



Yes, Mr. Lambert, you ask true,

WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!


Oh yeah.

It'll pass.


When the world turns mute for a day.

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Okay, another oh so good yet oh so short short story from Garth Nix (yay!) Sadly, no site have a proper printed version of the story. I did find a text version of it at wattpad which I guess a site serving e-books for mobile users (it's here and the story starts under the 295. click next for the next page) It's a mess so I copy-pasted the thing, trim it up nicely so it doesn't hurt to try reading but if you want an even cooler version to read, try the look inside feature on Amazon for the book Across the Wall here. Just go to the search inside this book tab once the look inside thing popped up and type '295' and the second result will get you the story and a little intro on Endings at the end (scroll down)

(Damn I suck at proper crediting, mind you!)

Taken from the Across the Wall: A Tale of the Abhorsen and Other Stories by Garth Nix, pages 295-298, Published by HarperTeen, 2005, here's Three Roses. I don't own any part of the story or the publishing company or the author and all rights to this work belongs to the author and publisher.

(Did I do good?)


Again, to me, it really is not about what was solely printed,
but what message the story contained.

They are only flowers.

Have fun reading!

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This is the story of a gardener who grew the most beautiful single rose the world had ever seen. It was a black rose, which was unlikely, and it bloomed the whole year round, which was impossible.

Hearing of this rose, the King decided to see it for himself. With his entourage, he rode for seven days to the gardener's simple cottage. On the morning of the seventh day, he arrived and saw the rose. It was even more beautiful than the King had imagined, and he wanted it.

"How did you come to grow such a beautiful rose?" the King asked the gardener, who was standing silently by.

"I planted that rose on the day my wife died," replied the gardener, looking only at the flower. "It is a true, deep black, the very color of her hair. The rose grew from my love of her."

The King turned to his servants and said, "Uproot this rosebush and take it to the palace. It is too beautiful for anyone but me."

But when the rosebush was transplanted to the palace, it lasted only a year before it withered and died. The King, who had gazed upon it every day, angrily decided that it was the gardener's fault, and he set out at once to punish him.

But when he arrived at the gardener's cottage, he was amazed to see a new rosebush growing there, with a single rose. But this rose was green, and even more beautiful than the black rose.

The King once again asked the gardener how he came to grow such a beautiful rose.

"I planted this rose on the anniversary of my wife's death," said the gardener, his eyes only on the rose. "It is the color of her eyes, which I looked into every morning. The rose grew from my love of her."

"Take it!" commanded the King, and he turned away to ride the seven days back to his palace. Such a beautiful flower was not fit for a common man.

The green rose bloomed for two years, and the King looked upon it every day, for it brought him great contentment. Then, one morning, it was dead, the bush withered, the petals fallen to the ground. The King picked up the petals and spoke to no one for two days. Then he said, as if to convince himself, "The gardener will have another rose."

So once again he rode off with his entourage. This time, they took a spade and the palace jardinière.

Such was the King's impatience that they rode for half the nights as well as days, but there were wrong turns and flooded bridges, and it still took seven days before he once again rode up to the gardener's cottage. And there was a new rosebush, with a single rose. A red rose, so beautiful that the King's men were struck silent and the King himself could only stare and gesture to the palace jardinière to take it away.

Even though the King didn't ask, the gardener spoke before the spade broke the earth around the bush.

"I planted this rose three years after the death of my wife," he said. "It is the color of her lips, which I first kissed under a harvest moon on the hottest of summer nights. This rose grew from my love of her."

The King seemed not to hear but kept staring at the rose. Finally, he tore his gaze away and turned his horse for home.

The jardinière watched him go and stopped digging for a moment. "Your roses are the most beautiful I have ever seen," he said. "They could only grow from a great love. But why grow them only to have these memories taken from you?"

The gardener smiled and said, "I need nothing to remind me of my wife. When I walk alone under the night sky, I see the blackness of her hair. When the light catches the green glass of a bottle, I see her eyes. When the sun is setting all red against the hills and the wind touches my cheek, I feel her kiss.

"I grew the first rose because I was afraid I might forget. When it was gone, I knew that I had lost nothing. No one can take the memory of my love."

The jardinière frowned, and he began to cut again with his spade. Then he asked, "But why do you keep growing the roses?"

"I grow them for the King," said the gardener. "He has no memories of his own, no love. And after all, they are only flowers."